


Liquor Liquor

by komorinana



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Anal Sex, Hand Jobs, Intoxication, M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23343892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/komorinana/pseuds/komorinana
Summary: Day in, day out, Rhys endured the oppressive din of his office – he wasn’t cut out for selling stocks, and his boss's pressure to perform better wasn't helping one bit. To remind him of the time when he could drown his sorrows, he visits a dive bar. A chance encounter with the bar's glamorous owner leaves Rhys with a new job offer he struggles to refuse, and the potential to make a few wealthy connections.A condensed version of the NSFW 20s-era prohibition fic I’d love to fully flesh out one day.
Relationships: Handsome Jack/Rhys (Borderlands)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 62





	Liquor Liquor

**Author's Note:**

> hi hello! mori here, with a condensed version of the fic i've been wanting to write since i first hopped back on the borderlands train a couple months ago. unfortunately i don't think i'll be able to write the full thing, but i figure this works as a part one/stand-alone story just fine! honestly i just love the 20s vibe, with bootlegged alcohol galore.
> 
> stay classy, hope u enjoy! 🖤

The unholy din of Rhys’s office was almost enough to make him want to claw his messy hair out. The ringing, bargaining and clanging of the typewriters being fitted with new paper was incessant. The smoke from his colleagues’ cigarettes made the air hard to choke down, especially with all the motorised fans on the blink. The city had been bombarded with its hottest summer to date, but business refused to slow - the boardroom wouldn’t stop if a streetcar crashed into the ground floor. The sun’s heat was oppressive, backlit by the factory fumes painting the sky, and Rhys was running on empty. His shirt today was creased - he hadn’t had time to run an iron over it between his three cups of coffee and uppers - he had a taxi to catch, and the bright yellow bulls that weaved through the melting pot he called home weren’t exactly patient.

The pressure from his boss wasn’t doing him any favours, either. Henderson had called him into his office near the end of yesterday’s shift, beginning his lecture with the phrase time is money. Rhys could only gulp, take a seat, and prepare himself for the pink slip and abysmal redundancy bonus he was about to be given - but, as if the universe actually cared, Rhys was only issued a warning.

“One more strike, my boy.” Henderson had said. “One more strike, and you’ll be scouring for vacancies in the Tribune.”

Rhys sighed and muffled his free ear with his hand - the one that wasn’t glued to a telephone - before keying in his next client’s number, its circular dial whirring with every digit. On the other side of the line, a familiar click yanked Rhys into action.

“Hello, Mr-” Rhys started, flicking urgently through inky, unorganised files. “-Samuels. I’m calling on behalf of a Mr. Jakobs today. Our records indicate that you have sizeable private shares in DAHL, but what if I told you that-”

Goddamnit. The dial tone reverberated through Rhys’s skull tauntingly, and he slammed the phone into its receiver. Today was just not his day. No matter how thickly he laid on the charm, his success rate wasn’t in the green. He knew full well that a day like this would have him kicked to the curb, but he was at a loss for backup plans. As small as his hovel of an apartment was, it wasn’t cheap. He needed food. Electricity. Gas. It all kept adding up, and Rhys needed a drink.

Prohibition, to his dismay, was in full swing. As the painful hours went by and Rhys barely made a dime, however, he decided that it’d be more productive to wallow in his impending doom over a soda on the rocks than a carton of ice cream in his lonely kitchenette again. A smug look from Vasquez and a scowl from Henderson as he passed by the water cooler on his way out was the last kick in the teeth Rhys really didn’t need and, a ten-minute walk later, he found himself staring at a beaten-up building with a cherry red sign on its door reading Mad Moxxi’s.

Outdated flyers of jazz performances framed the sign and, just above the handle, there was a freshly-carved sigil of an upside-down U. If there was anywhere that held underground liquor, this had to be the place, shady looks be damned.

When Rhys entered the bar, the air was heavy. It smelled distinctly of cheap menthol tobacco - entirely different from the Columbian imports the hotshots at the office smoked. Its grunginess was surprisingly refreshing; the artificial lights were dimmed and Rhys’s shoes stuck a little to the years of dirt that had accumulated on the floors. When he got to his seat at the bar, he took his tie off and rubbed the back of his neck lazily. The string of fabric was starting to feel like a collar, if he was honest.

The landlady sauntered over to Rhys and put on a honey-laced smile as she leaned over the bar, clad in a red, intricately-sequinned and low-cut flapper dress. The tassels on the hem of her dress clinked against her pantyhose, and Rhys was sure that this woman had been dreamed up by some lonely tycoon - she was the definition of a mistress.

“What can I get for you?” She breathed out, low and enticing. “I don’t see a lot of pretty boys like you around these parts.”

Before Rhys had a chance to answer, she reached her hand across the countertop to loudly push a glass jar to him, aptly labelled insert your tip. Rhys dug his hand in his pocket and placed a five in there, just for the theatrics of it.

“Moxxi, I’m guessing?” He asked, earning a flattered wink from her. “I’ve had a long day. Need something strong.”

Moxxi’s thinly-drawn eyebrows lost their playful quirk as she apologised. “Not yet, sugar. Not yet. You be sure to come by when you get your next pay check, okay? Shipment’s coming soon. Tell your friends.”

“Ah.” Rhys ran a hand through his hair. “That’s a good one.”

Next quarter would mark Rhys’s one-year anniversary at his company - his first job, just out of college, fresh-faced and ready to take on the big city, completely unaware that the real world was one big no after another. He’d throw the towel in if he had anywhere concrete to throw it, and his disappointment was plastered across his face. Moxxi’s eyes, on the other hand, lit up.

“Oh, doll, you’re in trouble?”

“A little.” Rhys tried to laugh, not wanting to divulge everything too easily, but Moxxi’s seemingly genuine intrigue made him go on. “Boss has it in for me. Says I’m too soft for sales. Honestly? I’m not gonna last the month there.”

“Sales? Can’t say you’re the most intimidating thing I’ve ever seen. Businessmen can get really big and bad, sugar. You sure you’re in the right… field of work?” Moxxi said as she bent down, pulling a glass bottle of soda from the whirring fridge under her, thick with condensation. She opened it on the side of her unused beer tap and wrapped her lips around it so crudely Rhys had to tear his eyes away out of awkwardness.

“I-” Rhys stammered, not sure what Moxxi wanted out of him. “I’m really not sure anymore.”

“I have a proposition for you.” Her tone was soaked in playfulness. “I’ve been looking for someone like you. Someone to appeal to a certain portion of my clientele for a while now, who won’t make do with my… assets.”

Rhys blanched, and almost kicked himself when something sparked under his skin - something rebellious and curious - and Moxxi recognised it as soon as it surfaced.

“Like I said, sugar, I don’t see a lot of pretty boys around here. It’s not like I believe in destiny or anything, but… I’m going to be teeming with customers starting Saturday, and it sounds to me like you’re in need of a little cash.”

Although Rhys was going to speak - to play Moxxi’s suggestions off, to act as if he wasn’t considering her words with more gravity than he’d ever admit - she shushed him with a gloved finger to his lips. Content that she’d quietened him, she grabbed a pen from the band in her hair and scrawled something on a nearby napkin, signing it with a kiss to imprint her lipstick on the makeshift note.

“Think it over. Give me a call if you like the feeling of being in demand.”

Rhys bristled, and Moxxi’s smile didn’t waver. The evening went on, and Rhys nursed the cream soda Moxxi hadn’t finished and given to him, watching her work the few patrons who arrived after him. She had the same spiel for everyone, as Rhys gathered, offering them something cold because they looked oh, so hot after being in that damned sun before bringing out a case of cigars in lieu of the alcohol they craved. The fat-cats tipped generously; they were handsy, but, as Moxxi put it, a twenty down your shirt is still a twenty. Rhys couldn’t argue with that at all and, admittedly, he was a little jealous of how easy it was for Moxxi to command attention. Rhys hadn’t had any action in months and he was starting to get a little antsy, for lack of a better term.

He cursed himself out as he dialled Moxxi’s number the following evening, but Rhys’s rationality always had a hard time winning out against his materialism. Moxxi picked up, purring innuendos down the line as she planned a time - after his shift in the office was over - for Rhys to be shown the ropes. She’d talked him through the inner workings of her bar more than once by the end of the week and he’d learned as many names as he could: Ellie and Scooter, Moxxi’s children with inexplicably thick southern accents, the Hammerlocks, who seemed entirely too elegant to be regulars and Fiona, Moxxi’s second new recruit. Unlike Rhys, she was a sarcastic grifter with a string of other questionably legal side-jobs whose life was so unpredictable she kept a bottle of pepper spray up her sleeve. For some odd reason, she’d asked Rhys to help her learn his sales script and, in return, she’d shown him how to swindle his way through a game of Blackjack. To Moxxi’s delight, her new babies had made surprisingly quick friends.

Rhys’s only complaint thus far was Moxxi and Fiona’s comments on his clothes. He’d looked at them incredulously when they’d called him frumpy. His slate grey, plaid pants were ordered straight from last month’s Improved Tailoring for Men, and he had half a mind to tell the girls just that.

“I can try and find you something of mine that isn’t too outlandish, if you’d like.” Moxxi had offered, and Rhys’s clear offence made Fiona double over in her chair.

“I draw the line at a corset.” He’d replied, and Fiona was in hysterics. He’d finished that particular meeting promising Moxxi, albeit reluctantly, to pick up something less stiff.

Saturday reared its head far too slowly. The sun hadn’t begun to set and there was already a buzz of clientele, eager and waiting for Moxxi to open the place up officially. Rhys had to shuffle his way past a few of them to get to the back once he’d arrived, straight from his desk. Moxxi was brimming with energy, finishing up her makeup as Fiona flitted around her, in deep discussion with herself about which pair of boots she should wear. Rhys made quick work of changing from his suit to his new outfit in one of the bathroom’s stalls before he made his way to Moxxi, all dressed up.

“Nearly showtime.” She whispered as Rhys leaned on the back of her chair, sending a kiss to him through the vanity mirror they were both looking at. She shifted in her seat, placing her powder puff down to rake her eyes over him. He wore a slightly loose, silky black shirt, tucked into straight-leg, pinstripe slacks and black brogues, tied together with a silver-buckled, faux-leather belt. His lithe waist was accentuated by the tight waistline of his trousers and the shirt’s neckline, with one button undone, revealed just enough of the smooth expanse of Rhys’s chest. Moxxi, of course, insisted that Rhys sit down in her chair so that she could add a little rouge to his cheeks and nose and the tiniest bit of pencil to fill in his eyebrows, but she ensured him that he was absolutely perfect once she was done. A shout from Ellie that the alcohol had arrived was the only thing that pulled Rhys away from admiring himself in the lit-up mirror. He’d never seen himself dolled-up before.

Seeing the bar so full was enough to take Rhys’s breath away. Moxxi’s mystery sponsor had supplied her with everything from spirits to ales - the most popular, she’d said, being whiskey - all unlabelled and dubiously legal. Rhys had always likened the taste and smell of whiskey to paint thinner or polish remover, but he could make do with that if everything went numb and exciting for a while. He could more than make do. He was about to have the time of his goddamned life.

From the start, the night went amazingly. There was a queue to get into the bar and Moxxi had to make an emergency call to her supplier for more glasses, but that’s where the troubles ended. The patrons were enjoying everything Moxxi had to offer - the live band set the tone perfectly, framed by the curls of smoke that poured from the ends of cigarettes, the slamming of glasses on tables for another round, the young couples blushing as they fell into one another as they danced.

The tips and drinks Rhys was given had him seeing the entire world under a rose-tinted filter, but he wasn’t complaining at all. The Dutch courage he possessed was going down a storm, and Moxxi had taken to kissing him on the face whenever he went back to the bar for orders. They earned a particularly loud cheer when she caught him on the lips, and they soaked the attention up together.

Rhys adored praise. “You’re not getting enough of it at home, sugar,” was Moxxi’s explanation. Rhys hardly knew what to do with how positively his body was responding to it, but he knew he’d do anything for more. Jesus, I’m getting hard from this, he thought to himself, guiding another patron’s tip into his undershirt to drop off at the jar, am I thinking straight right now? No, not at all, dumb-dumb. That’s the point of alcohol. Should I go jerk off in the bathroom? Is that a thing I can do?

Rhys’s fading conscience stopped arguing with itself when he heard Moxxi shout. He turned around to see her with her arms wide open, heading straight for the stranger who’d just walked in. A tall man with broad shoulders and a devilish smile met her, resting his hands on her hips, and she planted a kiss on his cheek. Every other sentence Rhys had been battling to form dripped away and evaporated. The stranger was gorgeous.

“Oh my goodness, Jack, sugar, you made it! I’ll be damned, I was thinking you weren’t going to come.” She spoke as soon as she’d let him go, twiddling her hair between her fingers, her biggest, most hospitable smile spread across her face.

“Moxxi, baby, would I miss this for the world?” Jack spoke, his voice carrying over the cackling of the other patrons. It was low and oozing charisma - Rhys had never heard someone make nine words sound so irresistible before. “I need some alcohol in me.”

Oh, fuck. Think of an excuse to say hello. Anything. Anything!

“Miss Moxxi!” Rhys shouted, far louder than he needed to, with absolutely no follow-up in mind. He nearly tripped over his own legs as he reached the pair, and Moxxi pulled him to her side, lovingly, presenting her new little worker to the man in front of them. Deep-set, mismatched eyes narrowed, combing over Rhys, and Rhys tried his best to look appealing as he bit his lip and smiled.

“Where’d you pick that out from, Mox?” Jack asked, amused at the lengths Rhys was going to. “He’s pretty as hell. Aren’t you, kitten?”

Rhys’s words still weren’t forming, so Moxxi answered for him. “He’s been having a hard time with his day job so I decided to take care of you, didn’t I, Rhys?”

“Mmhm.” Rhys hummed, willing his face not to flush, far too nervous to think of an interesting retort.

“Mmhm?” Jack echoed, a little sarcastically. “Sounds like you need to fill your daytimes with bigger and better things, Rhys.”

Rhys’s jaw hardwired itself shut - he didn’t trust himself not to say something ridiculous. He begged his brain not to reply with that sound again, but he did anyway. A pleading little noise came out of his throat as Jack spoke his name, whose entertainment was palpable.

“You wanna work on some other tables, sugar?” Moxxi motioned to a group who’d been trying to get the landlady’s attention for some time before turning back to Jack. “I’ve got a spot with your name on it, sugar.”

“Isn’t Rhysie going to get me a drink? You can’t have introduced us for nothing.” Jack smirked wryly. “Besides, I wanna see if I can get any actual words out of him. You speak English, kid?”

“I-”

Moxxi laughed, far too ceremoniously for the quip Jack made, cutting Rhys off. She turned Rhys to the side and shushed him again.

“Rhys, you’re talking to the goddamned CEO of Hyperion.”

“Hyperion… the distributions company?”

“Yes, sugar, and Handsome Jack is distributing liquor to me. We go way back.” She hushed. “Big money. Only recently. Used to work bonds. Like you, strangely enough.”

Rhys always adored the idea of the finer things, even if life hadn’t thrown him a chance at having them yet - his entire life, he’d been breathing in second-hand smoke. Jack commanded something entirely different, and he wanted it.

“You… think he could give me some financial wisdom?” Rhys tried.

“The only wisdom you’ll get from Jack is a slap on the ass. Don’t go bugging him or anything, Rhys. If I were you, I’d stick to the tables you’d get applause out of for dropping a glass, not a pistol to the neck.”

“But, I- I can handle it, definitely. He called me pretty, Moxxi…”

Rhys’s words were slurred, and Moxxi rolled her eyes like a cartoon.

“Show me with your hands how many drinks you’ve been bought.”

Rhys contemplated her order for a moment and held up nine fingers. Moxxi’s eyebrows arched higher than Rhys thought possible.

“Jesus, sugar!” She scolded. “Is ‘no’ not in your vocabulary, by any chance?”

Rhys was going to answer, but Jack’s purposeful cough pulled them both back into his line of vision. He was looking straight at Rhys and Moxxi knew that she’d already lost her battle. She sat Jack and the party he came with down in the nicest booth her little tavern could offer and, with a wink, left Rhys to take their drinks. She’d told to him to be good and to fetch her if he needed anything, but the reality of Rhys’s situation - the hungry eyes of what were essentially gangsters bearing down on him - simply failed to sink in. He was as charming as possible, swaying to the rhythm and blues in the background, as he took his customer’s requests.

He made special care to write Jack’s order word-for-word; a Highball and a Southside, a whole bottle of whiskey, and, underlined, a big-ass glass of ice. By the time he’d collected the drinks, Jack was setting up what looked to be a game of poker, dealing out cards with his deft fingers. Rhys had put the glasses on coasters so the condensation wouldn’t make the paper soggy - a brilliant and impressive idea in his foggy mind. The men thanked Rhys with pet names - baby, sweetie, hot stuff - but Jack placing a hand on Rhys’s thigh once he’d finished dealing was what really had Rhys’s heart jumping out of his ribcage.

“You play at all, cupcake?” Jack asked, working circles into Rhys’s clothed thigh with his thumb as his free hand worked the cap on his whiskey, pouring far more than a double shot over his ice.

“No, but I picked up Blackjack recently…” Rhys replied, hoping he didn’t sound as starstruck as he felt.

“Innocent little thing, aren’t you?” Jack went on, sipping his drink without so much as a wince - Rhys would’ve gagged to drink something like that without a mixer. “You can’t work for Moxxi without knowing your way around a poker table, Rhysie.”

Not reeling from the fact that Jack had remembered his name, Rhys played along willingly. “It’d just be part of my training if I sat and watched you play, wouldn’t it?”

Jack seemed eager to indulge Rhys’s boldness - it was refreshing for him to meet someone who only had an inkling of his reputation, with a lick of a personality about him to boot. His hand moved away from Rhys’s thigh, expression not wavering as Rhys very obviously leaned in to chase his hand. To Rhys’s visible delight, Jack offered his lap to Rhys.

As it turned out, Rhys was not at all sober enough to learn the rules of poker, and he’d ended up barely listening to Jack’s instructions, opting to bury his face unashamedly in Jack’s neck, occasionally stealing a sip of alcohol when he felt like pushing Jack’s generosity. As he anticipated, there was no way in hell he could swallow Jack’s poison of choice without squirming, but Jack ate it up. He drank the cocktails Jack ordered, too, absolutely unaware that they’d been for him.

“Tell me, Rhysie, what should I do now?” Jack crooned under his breath, a great deal of previous winnings in front of him. Jack’s table had become somewhat of a spectacle - there were a few men who recognised Jack, and Fiona had taken to upper-handing Jack’s business partners. Rhys didn’t remember the sky outside turning pitch black, nor did he remember Moxxi pulling up a chair to amass a pile of cash for herself as she chided Jack for finally having one of her babies draped over him. She reminded her waitresses to go home after a while - it was late, far after their shifts were supposed to end - but Jack earned a giggle from her when he’d argued that Rhys hadn’t been fulfilling his job’s duties for a while.

“Y’should fold.” Rhys slurred, not even looking at the cards. “No, that’s not what I meant. Do the thing, Jack. The other thing. I like it when you do the thing.”

“The thing?” Jack questioned, thoroughly amused as Rhys shifted around on his lap, mumbling about trying to get comfy.

“The bullshitting thing - the thing where you pretend.” Rhys continued, but his frustration faded quickly when Jack caught his gaze again. “You got a sexy voice, you got a sexy face. You got a sexy everything.”

Jack took Rhys’s chin and tilted it towards him. “I do? You’re sexy.”

“Mmhm.” Rhys made the same noise again, and Jack laughed. In the calming buzz of the bar, Jack guided Rhys’s lips closer to his until they touched, gently. The sound of annoyance that caught itself in Rhys’s throat signalled Jack to kiss deeper and Rhys tasted the sharp tang of unfiltered whisky, the rich muskiness of tobacco, and the remnants of an expensive but entirely Jack cologne. Their lips moved against each other’s sloppily - they’d been waiting all night to act on their impulses and, even if their first kiss was short, it was powerful. Rhys felt as if he’d been claimed - all tongue and teeth exploring his mouth, violating him - and he loved it. Jack’s friends starting their next round drew his attention away from Rhys, who whined in response. Despite Jack’s perfect hand, he folded.

Jack bit readily on Rhys’s bottom lip for much longer than he needed to, but Rhys yearned for more. When Jack leaned back against the booth and didn’t go in for another kiss, Rhys nearly took one for himself, but he stopped and gasped when Jack went for his neck. Jack nipped at the column of skin Rhys presented to him and, for Rhys, the entire world was reducing from the city to the bar, right down to just his body and Jack’s. The strain in his slacks wasn’t easy to ignore anymore, and Jack’s hardness was resting against him blatantly, too.

Sitting on Jack’s lap - being flaunted by someone with power and influence, commanding their attention, was something Rhys was sure he could live on. “God bless Moxxi.” He whispered.

“What was that for?”

“Best boss ever.” He whined in-between kisses, aiming lazily at Jack’s face as Jack worked on his neck before something awful in the back of Rhys’s mind flared to life.

My boss.

Shit.

“Mmph-!” Rhys pulled himself away from Jack’s mouth, kicking himself for voluntarily losing that dull, wonderful sting of teeth and forming bruises. “Work.”

“Kitten, the bar’s been serving itself for two hours now.” Jack argued, words a little less articulate than usual. When Rhys shook his head, a little more comprehension washed over the older man. “You good?”

“Desk work.” Rhys willed his senses to come back. “It’s gonna be… a couple hours and I’ll have to get up, I need to sober up real, so, so bad.”

Despite his body throbbing at him not to, Rhys began to sit up. He was pulled back down to meet Jack so quickly he reeled.

“Cupcake, you don’t need to do that. I’ll pay double what they’re giving you to stay right here. Hell, I’ll triple it for you to come home with me.” Jack spoke lowly, and Rhys had to stifle his excitement.

“I’m not loose or anything, you know.” He complained, brushing an unruly stand of hair behind his ear.

“I don’t think you are. You’re fun, you’re adorable. You’re different.” Jack soothed away Rhys’s apparent offence. “It’s an offer, baby, that’s all. Your call.”

Content that Jack wasn’t going to think less of him for chasing his desires, Rhys, on autopilot, accepted. After checking in with Moxxi - who was absolutely loving the display before her, having never seen Jack pining for someone quite so much, drunk or not - Rhys was guided out of the bar, Jack’s hand resting on the small of his back. The street lamps lit the pair’s short walk to Jack’s top-down Rolls-Royce, parked alongside a few others, but none so garishly yellow. After sharing a bottle of whiskey with the guy, Rhys should’ve told Jack to flag down someone to drive for them. Naturally, he didn’t. The car’s ignition roared to life as Jack turned his key and pulled away, confident as ever, and Rhys vaguely noticed that he’d left his only change of clothes in his briefcase. It can wait for tomorrow, he thought, filling his lungs with the night’s breeze as it raced past him, literally everything in the world can wait for tomorrow.

With one hand on the steering wheel and an open road in front of him, Jack used his free one to pet Rhys’s thigh lovingly, and Rhys put his hand over Jack’s. Rhys felt like one of those celebrities he’d seen driving around in commercials in store windows; wind in their perfect hair, sunglasses on, a scarf trailing behind in the wind. In reality, Rhys’s hair looked like he’d been dragged through a hedge and his shirt was clinging messily to his sweaty skin, but he didn’t care. Looking at Jack, his sharp features lit by the moon, blurring past the sleeping city, Rhys mused over staying like this forever. It’d take longer than a single car ride to study Jack's face, he was sure of it.

As they reached the bridge that connected the city to its eastern outskirts - the Golden Acres, people called it - Jack’s hand shifted away from Rhys to reach into the glovebox. He took out a pre-rolled cigar and placed it in his mouth before he fished around for a matchbox, which he threw idly to Rhys.

“Light this for me, Rhysie.”

As quickly as he could manage without dropping the box’s contents all over the footwell, Rhys grabbed a match and struck it against the rough edge. The match flicked to life as the fuse crackled, and the wisps of smoke from the fire’s trail danced past Rhys’s face. He held the flame to the end of the cigar as Jack inhaled, and he was entranced. The paper circled in on itself as it hit the dry tobacco before Jack took it from his lips to breathe out. A long stream of smoke filled the Royce’s dashboard.

“Your eyes are ridiculously wide right now.” Jack deadpanned, and the intimacy of the moment made Rhys shift, very obviously, in his seat. “We’re being bashful now?”

“Sorry, sorry!” Rhys stammered, trying to catch glances at Jack and the magic he was working with his cigar. “You’re… I dunno, I jus’ like looking at you.”

“You wanna try?” Jack said, as if Rhys hadn’t just embarrassed himself, handing him it. “No big breaths if you're not used to the good stuff, kitten.”

“Please, I work in bonds.”

Rhys stared down the cigar, completely unaware of how to approach it. The most experience he had with smoking were slims he’d pinched from his friends. He took a small, tentative drag, as if he was drinking from a straw. He didn’t exactly cough, but his chest rattled a little and the smoke ended up coming out of his nose. It was the least sexy thing Rhys had ever done, and Rhys had done a lot of un-sexy things in his life. Jack looked unimpressed and Rhys, almost climatized to the strength of the tobacco, blew his second drag in Jack’s face. Jack didn’t flinch at all, so Rhys settled for sneering as he puffed again.

“Oh, great.” Rhys stropped. “You’ve gone and got a bad impression.”

“A bad impression of what, babe?” Not missing a beat, Jack took the cigar back from Rhys and finished it off, throwing it out of the side of the car.

“Of how capable I am with my mouth.” Rhys gloated, feathers completely ruffled, and Jack languished in the fact that Rhys had something to prove. “Don’t underestimate me, Handsome Jack.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” Jack’s hand was on Rhys’s thigh again, and Rhys could practically feel his skin spark at the touch, even through fabric. He was tingling with want, still, so he positioned Jack’s hand a little further upwards, enough so that he could squeeze Jack’s hand between his thighs for thinly-veiled innocent friction.

“You’ve got me riled up.” Rhys smiled, refusing to give Jack the satisfaction of fully arching into his touch quite yet. “You.”

“You're lucky we're home.” Jack started as his car rolled to a stop, wheels grinding loudly against the gravel of his driveway. “I would’ve pulled up and groped you on the side of the road if you kept that up.”

Rhys stumbled out of the car, slamming Jack's expensive door before he had the chance to circle the car and offer Rhys a hand. “Race you there!”

“Are you out of your- What?” Jack stammered, dumbfounded, as Rhys took off towards the lavish building in front of him, barely having a chance to process the grandeur of the ‘house’ he’d be spending the night in.

“Obviously, I’m playing hard to ge-”

Rhys was pulled back as he reached the door, twirled around and held against Jack, who kissed the side of Rhys’s face as he fumbled with the keys in his pockets. Rhys, counting it as a huge victory that Jack had actually taken off after him, was quick to latch onto Jack’s jawline, kissing the edges of his face. When Jack finally had his front door open, the two all but fell inside - Jack grabbed Rhys’s ass and Rhys forced his hands under Jack’s shirt, judgement too clouded to attempt to actually unbutton the thing. They stood, in Jack’s otherwise empty foyer, grappling with their shared inability to magic each other’s clothes away. Jack was the one who took initiative, unbuckling Rhys’s belt.

It slipped out of its hooks with ease and Rhys’s hands shot to his fly, cock tenting too painfully against its confides to bear another second. Jack kissed him again, harder than Rhys had ever been used to, pinning him against the wall adjacent to his front door. Rhys’s underwear pooled at his ankles along with his trousers and the open air felt heavenly - his cock was swollen, red and pleading to be touched, but Rhys wanted to get Jack’s clothes off of him first. As their lips mashed together, Rhys’s shirt joined the mess he’d made on the floor, the dollars he’d had stuffed down there left forgotten. Jack’s cock was freed, as needy and begging for release as Rhys’s, so the younger man reached for it, lubing his hand with the precum leaking from Jack’s tip so his strokes wouldn’t be too rough. He pushed himself against Jack’s leg, hiking his own onto Jack’s hip and found the leverage he needed there, whining as Jack whispered everything and nothing into his ear. One of Jack’s hands ended up in Rhys’s hair, tangling in his thick locks, pulling his face back from their kisses.

“Open, Rhysie.” Jack ordered, and Rhys took Jack’s finger in his mouth without hesitation, coating the digit - and the second one that followed it - with spit. Jack took his fingers out of Rhys’s mouth once he was satisfied with the lewd display Rhys had eagerly put on for him, holding Rhys in place by the hip as he reached down and worked Rhys’s hole open, torturously slowly.

Rhys had to steady himself on Jack’s shoulders, even as he was pressed against the wall. Jack made an unappreciative noise at the sudden lack of attention on his cock, but Rhys’s mind - if his closed eyes were anything to go by - was elsewhere. Jack was as gentle as his impatience allowed him to be, and the sensation of want that coursed through Rhys’s body had him shaking. He moaned, mouth open against Jack’s neck, trying desperately to nip and suck at the flesh there as Jack had so skilfully done to him.

“Harder, Jack, God.” Rhys repeated, groans escaping his mouth, stopping him from forming full sentences. “I need more of you, more-”

When Jack’s fingers left Rhys he could've cried, but being lazily picked up and led into a smaller room - an office overlooking the stream running through the estate, which would’ve been a pretty sight if Rhys’s mind wasn’t chanting fuck me, fuck me, fuck me until I can’t walk - was enough of a promise of more for Rhys to keep it together. Jack was acting fast before he set Rhys down on the side of his desk, pushing books and files onto the floor haphazardly. Rhys didn’t waste any time either as he leaned back, opening his legs wide enough so that he could settle the arches of his feet against the table’s edge for support. He presented himself to Jack, dick shuddering when he ghosted his fingers over it provocatively, eyes begging Jack to stop drinking in the view and act on it.

Jack boxed Rhys in, a hand laying over the one Rhys had strewn next to his head, interlocking their fingers. He kissed Rhys through the tender sting of being spread by something much wider than two fingers, inch by heavenly inch, and he gave Rhys a moment to get used to the feeling once he was fully inside the little brunette. Rhys was maddeningly full, but his wish had been well and truly granted. The feeling was unfamiliar - enough to make Rhys squirm and quiver - vying for any stability Jack could give him.

“Jack.” Rhys pleaded, halfway between a moan and a sob, fingernails digging into the back of Jack’s hand. “Jack.”

“Rhys, baby.” Jack hushed, holding back a smirk as Rhys tried to relax enough to accommodate the intrusion, only to tense up and grip Jack beautifully. “I’ve got you. You’re not going anywhere.”

Skin glowing under the white moonlight, Jack moved his hips and set a steady pace that grew in severity as Rhys’s encouragements grew - he wrapped his legs around Jack, meeting his harsh thrusts when he could, failing to control his body enough not to sob when Jack drew his cock out. Euphoria crashed into Rhys like a wave, and he wanted nothing more than to drown in it when Jack rammed himself back in. Rhys had lost himself, and he never, ever wanted to find his way back. As Jack angled himself perfectly into Rhys - to the hilt, even if Rhys’s muscles were blissfully tight when he did so - his thrusts became uneven and animalistic.

“You like that, Rhys?” Jack urged as Rhys’s entire body arched into the pleasure, blinded and roaring drunk on ecstasy. He’d never known someone to stroke his ego so readily in exchange for any sliver of approval. “You’re close, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

“Am- am I okay to-?” Rhys whimpered, lacking the stamina in his altered state to keep up with Jack’s roughness, his inexperienced body raw and pleading for release. “Jack, I really can’t- can’t handle-”

“Let it all out, Rhysie.” Jack urged, kissing away the tears that formed at the sides of Rhys’s eyes as he reached his peak. “Let that pretty cock of yours come.”

It didn’t take long before Rhys came on Jack’s command, a high-pitched sound escaping him he hoped to God Jack wouldn’t remember. Rhys untangled his hand from Jack’s desperately to stroke his cock through his orgasm, ruthless and needy, and the convulsions Rhys’s body sent to Jack was more than enough to spur his own climax not long after.

“Rhys, get down here and let me cum in your mouth.” Jack ordered, pulling himself out of Rhys. Rhys forced himself to sit up, whiny, spent and empty, searching for Jack’s hand to hold again before sinking down from his place on the desk to his knees.

Rhys opened his mouth, wide, and looked up at Jack through misty eyes. He licked Jack’s tip and Jack stroked himself as hot ribbons of cum painted Rhys’s face; Rhys swallowed what he could before cleaning the corners of his mouth with his fingertips, not able to catch it all.

“Jesus…” Jack sighed, breathless, as the show beneath him came to an end and Rhys tiredly stuck to his leg. “Get up here, baby. Come here. Come to Jack.”

Rhys’s legs were shaky, but he threw himself into Jack’s arms, suddenly realising that there still wasn’t a bare chest there to snuggle into. He pouted at Jack’s half-unbuttoned shirt before making sloppy work of finishing the job. He nuzzled into Jack once he was done, and Jack was more than content to bask in the afterglow of ruining Rhys quite so perfectly.

“So good.” Rhys whispered, as if he was letting Jack in on a secret. Jack voiced his agreement, low and soft, and started to sway a little with Rhys to keep him awake. Rhys was afraid he’d fall apart if Jack didn’t hold him so tightly. “So tired. Never felt like this before.”

“You look like you’re about to pass out on me, kid.” Jack all but pulled Rhys to the direction of the door. “Bedtime for us, I think.”

“Jack…” Rhys smirked, as if it were a proper reply, moving slowly up the stairs of Jack’s mansion. He had absolutely no idea where he was going in the darkness of the empty building, save for Jack’s own sleepy smile and the hand clutching onto him. Rhys’s body didn’t allow him the time to survey the room, or even wait for Jack to join him - he out like a light when his head hit the soft pillow on Jack’s bed. Naked, uncovered, drool sticking to him, Rhys had the best night’s sleep of his life. Passing out drunk in the Golden Acres was one of the easiest things he’d ever had to do.

The prospect of a hangover hadn’t entered his mind once.

Waking up was _torture_.


End file.
